The 
Old 
Tcwn 
on  the 
"Kiver 


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LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OE  CALIEORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MR.    GEROGE   COBB 


THE     OLD     TOWN 
ON       THE      RIVER 


A  Pictured  Poem 


THE  OLD  TOWN 
ON   THE  RIVER 


A    LITTLE    BOOK    OF   VISIONS 

B  Y 

FLORA        BULLOCK 


FHOTOGRAFHJ"    BY    MtJJRJ.    TYJON   AND   RICE 
DRA'VINGJ"      BY      HARRIET     HERJHEY 


,900 
THE  IVY  PRESS 

LINCOLN  NEBRASKA 


Y  R 

9 


Arranged    and    Printed    by    Harry   S.    Stuff   at 
THE  IVY   PRESS    (Sign  of  the  Ivy  Leaf  ^    LINCOLN,  NEB. 


NO  T  THE  Old  To7i'ii  historical,  social,  nor 
commercial,  hut  the  Old  Tow/i  hcaiitijul,  is  the 
theme  of  this  little  Book.  Traditions  max  hest 
be  told  by  those  ivJio  helped  make  them.  But  all 
sojourners  are  privileged  to  enjoy  the  beauties  of 
the  fairest  region  in  Nebraska. 

A  PART  of  these  sketches  and  verses  were  con- 
tributed to  the  columns  of  the  Courier,  of  Lincoln, 
in  the  years  i8gg  and  /goo.       .... 


Oh,  I  would  bring  you 

A  draught  of   this  beauty, 
You  who  sit  crouched 

By  the  high  city  wall  1 
I  am  a  monarch, 

And  this  is  my  booty. 
To  keep,  1  would  share  it. 
To  hoard,  I  would  bear  it 
Away  where  the  shut  "  in  ones 

Struggle  and  fall, 


You  see  but  patches 

And  shreds  of  the  skies  ( 
I  own  a  dome 

Of   that  exquisite  blue. 
Mine  is  the  west 

Where  the  red  sun  dies, 
The  east  where  he  rises. 
That  chief  of  surprises, 
To  smile  on  my   kingdom. 

And  diamond  the  dew. 


The  Green  Things  Growing 


Poor,  and  a  beggar, 

I  claim  as  mine  own 
That  sweep  of   the  river, 

Broad  miles  of   the  hills  j 
For  over  them  ohen 

My  spirit  hath  flown. 
The  wild  flowers  blowing, 
The  green  things  growing, 
For  me  the  whole  woodland 

Its  perfume  distills. 


God  giveth  the  earth 

To  those  who  most  love  it. 
O  ye  of  the    City, 

Speed  forth  from  your  gates, 
And  stand  on  the  hill '  tops 

In  wonder  above    it ! 
A  song's  in  the  airj 
The  earth  everywhere 
Radiant  in  glory, 

Your  worship  awaits! 


PROLOGUE 


A  I  T  H  THE  PILGRIM  : 
"What  manner  of  place 
is  the  Old  Town?  " 

Saith  the  Interpreter : 
"  It  is  d  leafy  bower, 
a  green  allurement  for 
birds,  an  imbiber  o  f 
showers. 

"  It  is  a  picture  that 
cannot  be  painted,  a 
poem  that  cannot  b  e 
written,  a  song  that 
cannot  be  sung. 
"It  is  a  hospitable  ina  for  freighters,  a  relic  for  anti' 
quarians. 

"In  the  morning  it  is  a  refresher  of  the  sun. 
"At  noontide  it  is  an  oak -tree  for  the  earth. 
"In  the  evenmg  it  is  a  Dutch  Lullaby." 

Saith  the  Pilgrim :  "  What  manner  of  Folk  are  they 
that  dwell  in  the  Old  Town  ?  " 

Saith  the  Interpreter :  "  They  are  a  mystery  unto 
themselves.  For  they  know  not  whence  they  come 
nor  whither  (hey  go,  nor  can  they  truly  tell  what 
they  now  are. 

"They  are  servants,  not  masters;  even  their  food  and 

their  raiment  cometh  from  the  Bountiful  Giver. 

"All    of   which    doth    but    approve    them    the 

descendants  of  Adam  and    kin   to 

all  other  Folk  in  the 

Wide  World." 


THE  OLD  TOWN 


Where  hills  are  fairest  in  splendor, 
And  brightest  of  skies  look  down, 
Just  at  a  bend  of  the  River, 
There  lieth  an  Old  Town. 


HERE  are  Old  Towns  and 
Old  Towns,  even  in  fair 
young  Nebraska  ;  —  little 
burgs  that  the  pioneers  with 
unquestioning  courage  set 
along  the  great  River  in 
the  days  when  few  sus** 
pected  that  it  was  the  Jordan  of  a  promised  land. 
Rather  was  it  deemed  a  Nile  to  a  Sahara,  But 
the  conquerors  came  and  deployed  along  the 
stream  with  their  faces  to  the  west,  If  you 
ramble  where  they  paused,  be  not  surprised  if  you 
stumble  unawares  upon  rotted  boards  or  tumbling 
bricks  in  the  grass.  For  some  of  the  Old  Towns 
did  not  survive.  Their  records  are  kept  in  the 
memories  of  pioneers  or  in  yellowed  documents 
and  newspapers,  Others  of  these  frontier  cita^* 
dels  had  vitality  enough  to  live,  to  thrive,  and 
eventually  to  grow  old  gracefully,  so  that  their 
n^mes  have  become  a  charm,  "  known  in  sundry 
lauds,'     The  great  army  and  the  rear  guard  of 


conquest  passed  them  by.  The  currents  of  Life 
left  them  almost  as  sandbars  on  the  shores  of 
Time.  They  seem  content  to  stay  where  they 
have  drifted  and  watch  the  world  whirl  by,  A 
few  have  fallen  not  entirely  out  of  the  race.  Yet 
like  proud  old  dames,  they  ape  not  the  fashions 
of  the  young  folk,  but  sit  and  smile  on  their 
gayety.  keep  watch  of  the  girth  of  their  own 
oak ''  trees,  and  maintain  sweetly  that  it  is  no 
misfortune  to  be  old,  when  to  be  old  is  to  be 
beautiful, 

Nebraska  City  is  known  as  perhaps  the  prettiest 
town  in  the  state  whose  name  it  bears.  It  may 
be  that  the  Old  Settler  has  forgotten,  and  the 
stranger  who  wanders  along  the  streets  and 
beside  the  dun  ^colored  water  may  not  discover, 
the  rare  beauty  and  charm  of  the  place.  But 
come  with  me  to  a  high  aerie  above  the  tree /- tops, 
above  the  gray  roofs  and  steeples,  watch  the  Old 
Town  as  it  basks  peacefully  in  the  softened 
sunshine  among  its  venerable  oaks,  know  it  in 
its  different  moods  and  varying  seasons.  There 
will  always  be.  then,  though  you  may  travel 
far  and  view  the  splendors  of  the  earth,  a  little 
picture  in  your  memory,—  well  worth  keeping, — 
of  a  quiet,  dreamy  city,  one  /fourth  houses  roofs, 
and  three ''fourths  tree /tops,  set  on  gentle  slopes. 
and  with  face  to  the  Morning, 

But  you  will  not  see  the  glory  of  the  Morning 
if  you  watch  from  your  low  earth  dwelling.    You 


must  betake  yourself  to  some  high  look-out. 
The  temples  of  Phoebus  are  set  on  the  hills. 
Behold!  He  comes  up  over  the  River,  looking 
drowsy,  and  jaded  and  worn  from  his  long, 
unrefreshed  night  journey,  '  You  may  doubt 
this,  but  indeed  if  you  arise  early,  you  will  learn 
that  it  is  very  true  >,  Then  his  glance  falls  upon 
the  Old  Town,  and  eagerly  he  quaffs  the  foamy 
bowl  of  mist  brewed  over  night  on  the  river 
and  in  the  low  vales  between  the  hills,  quaffs  it 
as  rich  red  wine.     Soon  his  clouded  face  grows 


A  Repose  all  Nature's  Own 


clearer;  and  the  Old  Town  turns  toward  him, 
like  a  Nebraska  sunflower,  gathering  brightness 
as  it  worships. 

Then  too.  if  you  walk  low  streets,  you  may 
think  that  the  glory  which  rose  beyond  your 
neighbor's  house  sets  in  the  slough  behind  his 
barn.  But  it  is  really  true,  as  you  have  read  in 
poetry,  that  the  Life  ^  giver  sinks  to  his  rest  far 
away  among  the  hills.  Often  and  often  he  wraps 
the  Old  Town  in  a  wonderful  cloud  of  red  dust 
of  gold  ere  he  bids  farewell-  And  seldom  does 
he  leave  without  rending  the  cloud '- drifts  for  a 
last  smile  and  caress.  Golden  Nebraska  sunsets ! 
— to  see  one  once  is  to  wonder ;  to  see  them 
day  after  day  is  to  feel  that  God  is  good- 

But  the  beauties  of  the  Old  Town  are  not 
reserved  wholly  for  him  who  knows  it  from  a 
bird's  point  of  view.  As  a  city  of  trees  it  has 
charms  for  every  wayfarer,  especially  for  one 
who  has  erewhile  sojourned  on  the  treeless  plains 
of  the  west.  It  is  hard  to  credit  the  Old  Settler 
who  tells  you  that  these  great  oaks  and  elms, 
these  spreading  maples  and  stately  walnuts  were 
planted  by  the  pioneers.  One  would  think  rather 
that  Nature  had  the  hills  all  in  readiness  for  the 
coming  of  the  Paleface,  that  his  home  might 
grow  up  under  the  trees,  not  the  trees  around 
his  home.  Yet  the  Builders  so  wisely  supple  >> 
mented  Nature  that  the  Old  Town  has  long  been 
a   beacon   in   a   wilderness,      How   pathetic,   in 


reality,  is  the 
thought  of  the  little 
fellow,  born  among 
the  sand ''hills,  who 
told  his  Sundays 
school  teacher  that 
Moses  must  have 
lived  on  a  tree^ 
claim,  or  he  would 
never  have  seen  a 
burning  bush, 

The  Old  Town  is 
only  a  tree  "  claim 
grown   venerable. 


The  sight  of  the 
great  mass  of  green 
leaves  and  broad 
trunks  would  be  a 
holy  feast  to  the 
hungry  ones  of  the 
sand ''  hills.  But  it 
must  also  be  a  de  '- 
light  to  every  lover 
of  nature,  and  every 
artist.  The  grouping 
and  coloring  seem 
unsurpassable,  and 
often  a  camera  will 
secure  a   picture 


worthy  to  hang  in  the  salon-  There  are 
broad,  level  avenues  where  trees  separate 
just  enough  overhead  to  show  a  crescent  of  blue 
sky ;  great  landmarks  on  corners,  that  you  come 
to  know  as  a  friendly  greeting  when  you 
pass  by  them;  and  on  one  side  street  you  will 
surely  notice  a  sturdy  old  Middle^-of^the'Roader, 
who  stands,  a  lesson  in  independence,  to  every 
passer/by.  The  trees  recognize  no  caste  among 
men,  for  the  mightiest  oak  may  shelter  the 
humblest  hut;  and  cottage  and  mansion  alike 
has  each  a  group  of  noble  friends. 


None  but  a  plainsman  who  has  lived  where 
straight,  level  streets  stretch  away  into  nowhere, 
— unless  it  be  to  the  place  where,  as  someone 
has  put  it,  "you  can  see  day  after  tomorrow 
coming  up  over  the  prairie,"  can  appreciate  the 
pictures,  with  background  and  foreground,  that 
the  Old  Town  Folk  call  streets.  Many  a  road 
that  leads  to  the  east  affords  a  glimpse  of  the 
River,  and  the  blue /'shadowed  bluffs  beyond; 
this  dip  in  the  road  looks  down  into  a  shady 
dell,  and  that,  to  a  bridge  over  a  miniature  gorge. 
That  little  slope,  beside  a  leaning  fence  and 
overhanging  branches,  with  a  bit  of  the  River 
far  beyond,  must  surely  be  a  scene  strayed  from 
some  New  England  hillside.  Even  on  Main  street 
it  is  hard  to  catch  the  spirit  of  barter  and  trade, 
for  the  hazy  atmosphere  of  perpetual  afternoon 
hangs  over  the  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  long 
descent,  But  the  people  you  meet  are  nineteenth 
century  Folk,  and  you  may  forget  that  you  are 
in  an  Old  Town,  Perchance  the  Great  Tinkling 
Limited  will  pass,  and  you  will  regain  the  proper 
perspective.  Electric  cars?  Pray  let  no  modern 
suggest  it!  It  would  completely  spoil  the  Old 
Town, 

But  the  Spirit  of  Progress  has  already  committed 
well  .'nigh  unforgivable  sins  even  here  in  a  land 
of  romance.  It  has  mocked  at  ancient  relics 
and  broken  to  fragments  the  hieroglyphics  of  the 
past.     Strange  anomaly!     The  Old  Town  has  a 


clear,  mathematical,  India  ^  rubber  street  nomen  / 
clature,  which  might  be  the  envy  of  all  unin/- 
spired  Moses  striving  to  lead  other  cities  out  of  a 
wilderness  of  errors  and  alphabets,  The  poetic 
names  of  a  race  that  may  itself  become  only 
a  name  in  history,  were  fittingly  bestowed  by 
the  Builders-  But  Kiowa,  Nemaha,  Pawnee,  Otoe, 
and  the  rest,  were  thrust  out  of  their  tepees  to 
make  room  for  the  Idea  of  the  Paleface,  We 
have  no  time  for  romance,  say  you  ?  We  are 
too  busy  with  our  mills  and  shops,  our  stores  and 
offices,  our  schools  and  churches  and  societies? 
We  are  proud  of  our  industries  and  success,  and 
are  in  as  much  of  a  hurry  as  the  rest  of  the 
world  ? 

It  may  be,  and  it  may  be  well  if  it  is  so,  But 
to  those  who  gaze  day  after  day  from  a  high 
look-out  above  the  Old  Town,  it  is  a  place  of 
visions,  a  quiet,  dreamy  city,  one  » fourth  house  « 
roofs  and  three "  fourths  tree  ^  tops,  clinging  to  the 
hills  just  at  a  bend  of  the  River, 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS 


Up  hill,  down  dale, 
Through  darkest  hollows ; 
Where  one  has  gone  before. 
Many  another  follows. 


A  N  D  E  R  I N  G  Indian  trails 
that  lie  hidden  in  the  grass, 
that  have  been  filled  with 
the  drifting  leaves  of  many 
autumns — what  stories 
they  might  tell!  Paths 
beaten  so  hard  and  deep  that  not  all  the  rushing 
torrents  of  fifty  summers,  nor  the  thaws  of  as 
many  springtimes,  have  effaced  them.  Perhaps 
you  may  discover  one  as  you  ride  along  in  your 
cushioned  carriage,  for  the  Paleface  has  often 
followed  where  the  Red  man  marked  the  way. 
You  may  wonder  to  what  happy  h  u  n  t  i  n  g  »' 
ground,  grassy  council^seat,  or  primitive  work  " 
shop  it  might  lead,  if  you  could  trace  it.  But 
corn  has  tasseled  and  wheat  has  waved  on  too 
many  hillsides,  and  the  wigwams  of  the  Pale^ 
faces  have  clustered  too  closely  on  prairie  and 
plain.  Yet  few  of  the  reminders  of  our  strange 
Age  of  Fable  kindle  the  imagination  more  than 


an  old  Indian  trail, 
winding  among  the 
grass,  and  leading — 
whither  ?  ,  ,  ,  How 
sternly  the  narrow 
track  speaks  of  the 
loneliness  of  man  in 
this  world,  and  the 
mystery  of  his  end. 
It  is  something  the 
same  with  the  high^ 
ways  of  the  Pale^ 
faces,  But  they  are 
more  spacious ;  they 
suggest  companion^ 
ship,  and  might  tell 
tales,  also,  if  tongues 
were  granted.  They 
are  best  when  the 
River  and  the  hills 
that  bul  war  k  it 
have  thwarted  the  men  of  the  rod  and  chain. 
Your  section  >>  line  road  may  lie  never  so  please 
antly  between  hedgerows  and  great  old  trees, 
beside  majestic  corn  ,*  fields  and  tall  banks  of 
sunflowers ;  but  it  will  never  yield  the  subtle 
enjoyment,  the  pleasurable  sense  of  expectation, 
that  comes  to  one  who  follows  a  winding  path,  as 
Nature  decrees-  Then  every  bend  or  turn  is  a 
question  »  mark,  a  speculation  in  futures.     It  is  a 


special  blessing  if  you  are  a  stranger  and  must 
needs  ask  your  way,  for  then  you  may  come 
upon  some  old  farmer,  an  ancient  mariner  of  tlie 
prairies,  who  will  stop  his  nag  with  a  slow  Jerk, 
and,  after  deliberation,  will  tell  you  that  your 
true  course  lies  this  way,  then  that  way,  then 
past  a  white  house,  then  across,  and  over  and 
beyond,  How  it  stimulates  your  bewilderment ! 
Roads  lead  out  from  the  Old  Town  to  many  a 
spot  that  is  fair,  They  will  conduct  you  past 
venerable  orchards,  small  need  have  we  to 
wonder  at  our  great  Foremother ;  between  fields 
where  the  rustling  corn  grows  tall  and  stately ; 


A  Little  White  Mill  in  the  Wildwood 


upon  level  avenues  under  the  shadows  of  lofty 
walnut  trees ;  close  to  a  white  mill  in  the  wild  -' 
wood ;  over  red  bridges,  where  you  may  look 
down  into  a  quiet  pool,  or  mimic  cataract ;  until 
at  last  you  come  out  upon  a  high  bluff  where 
the  wind  blows  free  from  the  River,  and  you 
can  view  the  "  Big  Muddy  "  in  all  its  majesty, — a 
fitting  climax  of  your  pilgrimage.  The  road 
that  does  not  afford  you  at  least  a  glimpse  of  the 
old  River  may  be  pleasing,  but  it  is  like  an 
unfinished  picture,  a  sonata  robbed  of  its  final 
chord.  Once,  it  is  told  me,  there  was  a  veritable 
River  road  high  on  the  bluffs.  But  it  has  gone 
the  way  to  oblivion  with  the  Indian  trail,  and 
lies  buried  beneath  corn-fields  :  or  perhaps  it  may 
be  that  the  River  wooed  and  won  it,  and  bore  it 
away  in  the  night. 


What  an  impressionist  is  Nature  !  She  does 
not  favor  every  clime  with  her  great  exhibition 
pictures,  canvasses  adjudged  the  prize  by  ail  men, 
But  her  simple  beauties,  her  lesser  works  of 
wonder,  are  everywhere  in  the  world.  Surely 
the  Old  Town  has  fared  well  at  her  gracious 
hands,  partly  because  the  builders  of  the  city  gave 
her  aid.  The  River,  a  masterpiece  in  water 
colors,  is  the  chef  d'oeuvre,  and  the  Hills  arc 
perfect  in  drawing  and  coloring.  But  her  gallery 
is  filled  with  sketches  of  smaller  design,  pictured 
poems  that  to  see  once  is  to  remember  always. 
There  are  turns  in  the  road  where  the  sunlight 
lies  tangled  with  leaf  shadows  in  your  path,  and 
the  most  beautiful  blue  of  all  is  before  you  at  the 
crest  of  the  hill.  The  trees,  sprung  from  wind " 
blown  seed,  are  grouped  with  a  repose  a  1 1 
Nature's  own.     The  dull  gray  roads  of  men  are 


A  Walnut  Drive 


A  Venerable  Orchard      Arbcr  Lodge 


framed,  where  Nature  has  her  way,  in  gorgeous 
settings, — flowers  of  purple,  scarlet,  and  gold. 
Oh,  she  splashes  color  on  her  canvas  as  no 
disciple  of  hers  would  dare  ! 

Well,  to  ride  along  such  highways  and  byways 
is  a  true  worship  for  a  Sabbath  afternoon.  One 
would  wish  to  keep  on  roaming.  But  when  the 
twilight  comes,  like  a  beautiful  gray  angel,  whose 
robe  is  silence  and  shadow,  and  whose  breath  is 
a  soft  hand  on  your  brow,  then  it  is  good  to 
turn  your  face  back  to  the  Old  Town,  feeling,  as 
men  of  every  kindred  have  felt,  that  the  best 
road  of  all  is  the  road  that  leads  Home, 


THE  RIVER 


Whirling  and  swirling,  swift  and  strong, 
O  River,  pause  and  answer  mej  — 
What  is  the  burden  you  bear  along  ? 

The  River  paused  not,  nor  answered  he. 
Yet  I  caught  one  strain  of  his  murmured  song  j 
'I  bear  the  Mountains  down  to  the  Sea." 


F  T  E  R  all.  though  the  noble 
Red  man  perish  from  the 
earth  and  be  "as  a  tale  that 
is  told,"  he  will  leave  a 
precious  legacy  to  the  race 
of  Palefaces ;  he  may  go  to 
his  happy  hunting-grounds 
with  never  a  bend  in  his  proud  neck.  The 
names  that  in  his  gladness  or  in  his  fear,  with 
his  unspoiled  child  instinct  of  description,  he 
bestowed  upon  river  and  mountain  are  ours 
without  prick  of  conscience.  Yet  truly  we  did 
borrow,  like  the  new  neighbor  that  we  were. 
We  sprinkled  the  picturesque  names  of  these 
real  Americans  like  salt  from  east  to  west,  and 
from  north  to  south,  over  almost  every  acre  of 
our  fair  land.  No  return  was  required,  but  surely 
we  must  repay  in  recognition.     One  shudders  to 


A  Landmark  on  a  Corner 


think  what  names  might  have  befallen  us  other  >• 
wise.  The  seventeenth  century  Anglo  '■  Saxons 
lacked  the  pictorial  powers  of  the  Red  man,  To 
their  wondering  gaze  everything  was  New  this 
or  New  that,  or  else  for  the  sake  of  policy  or 
man 'glorification,  it  must  be  called  after  the  dis^ 
coverer,  the  founder,  or  one  of  the  Great  Ones 
in  the  mother  country,  The  French  and  the 
Spaniards  gave  many  satisfying  names  in  the  new 


land,  but  their  "  St,"  and  their  "  San  "  grow  a  little 
wearisome,  Fortunately,  no  one  with  an 
infallible,  expansive  system  of  ncmenclalure 
was  on  the  ground  to  fix  such  names  as  East 
River,  East  Branch,  Middle  River,  North  by 
North  ''  west  Fork,  or  the  like.  So  we  are  blessed 
in  having  the  Connecticut,  the  Ohio,  the  mighty 
"  Father  of  Waters,"  and  the  "  Big  Muddy,"     It 


A  Mimic  Cataract 


is  a  boon  for  which  we  might  be  very  grateful, 
in  a  world  where  Romance  is  dying. 

Inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  all  sons  of  Noah 
love  flowing  water,  A  bubbling,  gushing 
mountain  brook  is  a  stream  that  flows  from  the 
heart  of  Nature  to  the  soul  of  Man,  But  even 
the  swirling  old  Missouri,  famed  among  the 
nations,  wallowing  around  among  its  mud^-banks, 
possesses  a  fascination  that  all  must  feel.  True, 
it  flows  muddy  and  yellow,  choked  with  sand^ 
bars,  and  the  bluffs  along  its  sides  rise  barren  and 
steep.     It  lacks  all  the  suggestiveness  of  purity 


that  belongs  to  the  crystal  "  little  rivers/  so  loved 
by  wildwood  wanderers.  But  it  has  a  majesty 
and  grandeur,  like  the  mountains  that  give  it 
birth,  Walk  beside  the  water's  edge,  let  its 
influence  then  have  complete  sway,  and  you 
will  find  that  a  silence  falls  upon  you,  as  if  you 
were  listening  to  a  benediction,  "  It  quiets  a  man 
down  like  saying  his  prayers,  I  have  roamed 
beside  streams  that  seemed  an  invitation  to 
laughter.  But  the  mood  of  the  Big  Muddy  is  an 
impressiveness  approaching  solemnity,  Its  deep, 
ceaseless  song  is  an  epitome  of  the  anthem  of 
the  Universe, 


The  awful  sense  that  the  River  is  crawling 
leaves  you.  if  you  stand  close  beside  it  and 
watch  it  swirling  and  eddying  on  its  way.  There 
is  motion,  swift  as  the  waltz,  but  the  rythm  is 
s!ow  and  steady,  so  that  one  would  not  tire, 
though  he  sat  and  gazed  all  day.     It  flashes  and 


H^fl^^^H^^ 

^^■B 

An  Arbor  Ledge 
sparkles  in  the  sunlight,  and  when  the  wind 
blows,  as  it  still  does  occasionally  in  this  rescued 
desert,  the  white  "  caps  spin  along  right  merrily. 
Yet  on  the  whole  the  River  seems  a  sedate  old 
servant,  bent  on  carrying  out  its  homely  mission, 
Seen   from  the  bluffs  of   the   Old  Town,  the 


River  is  a  wide,  glassy  highway  that  winds 
unwillingly  on  the  Nebraska  side,  yoked  by  its 
enemy,  the  long  bridge.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
bridge,  might  not  the  river  riot  at  will  over  the 
wide  valley  ?  The  Iowa  bluffs  in  the  distance 
are  the  daytime  haunt   of  the  purple  and  gray 


ihe-Roader 


mists  that  creep  out  in  the  night  to  cover  River 
and  Town-  Once  the  River  sang  its  song  nearer 
to  their  feet.  Who  knows  but  it  may  do  so  again, 
though  riprappers  work  like  beavers  all  winter 
long  ? 

If  you  would  appreciate  the  deeper  meaning 


of  the  Red  man  when  he  decreed  that  all  who 
followed  him  should  say  "Big  Muddy,"  you  had 
best  clamber  about  the  bluffs  as  he  did,  and  find 
your  lookout  unhindered  by  roads.  Yet  several 
highways  leading  from  the  Old  Town  will  take 
you  to  views  of  magnificent  sweep.  Follow  the 
road  over  Kearney  Hill  to  the  southeast,  past 
pleasant,  thrifty  old  farms  j  a  delightfully  rough 
byway,  —  would  you  always  have  smooth  saib 
ing  ? — leads  through  an  uncanny  willow  swamp, 
and  at  length  up  the  bluff  by  the  back  door. 
Neither  brush  nor  camera  can  picture  that  view 
for  you, — the  wide,  many  ^  colored  valley,  level 


Iri  the  Park. 


as  a  floor  below  you,  with  a  silver  ribbon  winding 
and  turning  in  the  midst  between  great  ramparts, 
— winding  away  to  the  north  end  away  to  the 
south  as  far  as  eye  can  see,  What  a  mighty 
course  it  runs,  this  strong  old  River  that  guards 
a  Promised  Land  ! 

Merry  rivulets  trickle  down  through  brush 
tangles  to  join  the  rolling  current ;  in  the  valleys 
are  quiet  bayous  where  waters  pause  and  placidly 
mirror  the  sky  in  their  depths.  But  the  River 
heeds  them  not,  It  never  rests,  it  never  sleeps- 
Iis  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  Power,  It  is  kin  to 
the  Ocean  and  to  Eternity. 


THE  GREEN-CLAD  GLORY 


I  have  watched  for  your  coming 

With  eager  eyes, 
O  Robin  red! 

Yet  you  showed  suprise, 
And  flung  up  your  head 

With  a  guilty  air, 
As  if  you  would  speak, 

But  did  not  dare; 
Lest  your  wondrous  secret 

Might  whisper  through 
The  innocent  note  of  a 
"  How  d'ye  do  ?  " 


You  set  me  a '-  dreaming 

This  May  -<  March  day, 
Though  trees  are  bare 

And  the  hills  are  gray. 
Your  unsung  song 

Beats  within  my  breast ; 
You  need  not  tell, 

For  I  know  the  rest, — 
There 's  a  jubilant, 

Green  -  clad  Glory  that  waits 
With  her  fairy  wand, 

At  our  Southland  gates! 


ARCH    winds     may 
scurry  across  hills  and 
whoop  through  hollows, 
but    the    Robin,    winged 
Mercury  that  he  is,  comes 
house  "  hunting    betimes, 
and    we,    in    implicit 
confidence  of  the  signal,  begin  to  watch  for  the 
great  transfiguration  that  he  heralds.    Then  more 
than  at  any  time  else,  should  you  possess  a  high 
lookout,  from  which  to  keep  watch  of  this  slow 
work  of  wonder,    It  is  not  enough  to  observe  little 
patches  of  grass  and  a  tree  or  two  from  your 
parlor  window,     If  you  would  feast  on  the  ever/ 
new  beauty,  learn  a  lesson  of  the  birds ;  hie  thee 
to   the   hills  and  build  thee    a   house    on  stilts, 
Those    favored    men    who   have    always   made 
their  homes  in  the  high  places  will  perhaps  not 
understand    what    a    revelation    a   springtime 
above  the  trees  brings  to  the  unaccustomed,     It  is 
as  if  one  had  never  known  the  majesty  of  trees 
before,  no  matter  what  altars  of  worship  he  may 
have  built  at  their  feet. 

To  keep  watch  above  the  Old  Town  on  the  River 
as  Springtime  woos  and  wins  it  is  a  precious 
experience.  Yours  is  the  privilege  of  discover^ 
ing  the  first  tinge  of  green  under  the  frost  that 
sparkles  blue  and  white  on  the  lawns ;  to  you  it 
is  given  to  note  the  first  freshening  of  color  in 
Cottonwood  and  birch,  the  delicate  reddening  of 


A  Quiet  Bayou 


maples  and  elms,  Day  by  day  you  may  see  the 
new  life  throbbing  before  you  into  beauty,  the 
skies  warming  above  you  to  milder  hues,  the 
strings  of  sparkles  on  the  hillsides  that  rush  to 
throw  themselves  into  the  quickened  River,  glad^ 
dening  the  heart  of  school  >>  boy  and  girl ;  the 
River  itself,  silvery  white  and  flashing  as  it  flows 
broader  and  swifter  than  before;  the  greening 
of  pastures  and  fields  far  and  near;  the  white 
and  pink  of  orchards  in  bloom;— Oh,  it  is  not 


everywhere  that  one  can  see  such  mass  and 
tumult  of  beauty,  even  though  the  Springtime 
touches  all  earth  with  gladness, 

Wonderful,  balmy  dream  days, — Nebraska's 
best — come  and  go,  the  miracle  of  April  passes, 
and  in  early  May  days  you  will  find  the  Old 
Town  arrayed  as  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  might 
never  be,  After  the  winter  snows,  when  it 
looked  haggard  and  thin  as  it  crouched  beneath 
gaunt  branches,  right  gladsome  is  the  time  when 
the  Old  Town  comes  to  itself  again,  a  noontide 
oak'' tree  for  the  earth,  a  restful  vision  for  weary 
eyes.  So  it  remains  through  blazing  summer 
hours,  while  the  corn  grows  tall  and  stately,  till 
the  day  of  harvest  come. 


RED  LEAVES 


How  the  hills  blaze  ! 
'Tis  the  blush  of  frost  ^kissed  leaves, 
The  gold  that  wonderful  summer  days 
Have  stored  in  yellow  sheaves. 
But  away  in  the  shimmering  air 
The  pageant  of  gold  everywhere 

Melts  to  a  purple  haze. 


HEN  THE  great  King 
Scyld  had  "departed  to 
the  All /-Father's  keep^ 
ing, "  his  comrades,  as  he 
himself  had  bidden, 
placed  him  in  a  "ring" 
stemmed  vessel,  clothed 
in  his  most  royal  robes,  with  all  his  far  »  gathered 
jewels  and  treasure,  his  burnished  weapons  of 
warfare  about  him,  "On  his  bosom  sparkled 
many  a  jewel,  Above  him, "  high  under  heaven, 
floated  a  gold  "  wrought  banner.  Thus  in  royal 
state  the  tide  bore  him  away,  while  his  well » loved 
hearth ''  companions  stood  on  the  shore  and  gazed 
in  mournfulness- 

It  is  in  such  splendor  and  richness  that 
Summer  slowly  sails  away,  "trailing  clouds  of 
glory   as  it  departs.    Never  so  gorgeously  bedight 


y^ , 


Like  a  Burning  Bush 


as  in  the  hour  of  passing,  never  so  dear  as  in  the 
days  when  we  watch  it  drift  from  us.  Other 
Summers  will  come  ;  but  they  may  not  be  so 
fair,  we  think,  and  we  shall  be  changed,  or  mayhap 
shall  have  floated  away  in  our  own  lonely  barge 
to  a  far  ^  off  sunset  bourne.  So  to  all  men 
Autumn  has  ever  been  a  season  that  brings  a 
mournful  message,  arrayed  though  it  may  be 
in  the  glory  of  a  King, 

The  Old  Town  is  surely  a  favorite  canvas  for 
the  great  colorist.  All  hues  and  tints  must  be 
used,  for  the  trees  and  grasses  and  trailing  vines 
are  of  many  varieties.  However  tenaciously 
they  cling  to  their  sober  midsummer  dress, 
there  comes  a  day  when  they  drink  of  a  softly  fall" 
ing  Autumn  rain,  and  shiver  a  little  in  a  breeze 
that  whispers  a  strange  story  to  them,      Then 


quickly  is  there  a  flash  of  color  over  all  the 
scene, — scarlet  and  crimson,  yellow  and  orange, 
wine ''  color  and  maroon,  shaded  browns  and 
grays ;  new  shoots  on  reluctant  elms  add  the 
very  color  of  spring  ;  here  is  a  tree  whose  leaves 
are  half  green,  half  gold,  there  a  gray  old  trunk 
with  a  flame  of  woodbine  creeping  around  and 
up  to  the  highest  twig ;  the  grasses  along  the 
-wayside  are  of  unwonted  brilliant  hues,  and  every 
lone  tree  stands  like  a  burning  bush.  Always 
the  pines  grow  darker  and  darker  as  a  back-- 
ground ;  and  always  the  sky  that  arches  above 
all, — whether  blue  or  gray,  harmonizes,  A  soft, 
shimmering  veil  of  blue  "  white  haze, — Nature's 
inimitable  fashion, — graces  all.  In  such  days 
you  should  look  out  over  the  Old  Town,  and 
away  to  its  Sunset  hills,  where  it  may  be  granted 
to  you  in  the  evening,  to  see  the  sun  sink  in  a 
sea  of  gold,  transfiguring  earth  and  sky  with 
un  "  named  brightness. 

There  come  gray,  dripping  days,  when  the 
bright  tints  are  washed  from  the  leaves,  and 
the  wind  dances  them  away,  A  twilight  of  somber 
color  covers  all  the  landscape.  The  trees  become 
bare,  gaunt  shapes,  no  longer  a  hiding  place  for  the 
habitations  of  men,  Still  there  is  summer's 
deep  green  on  many  a  grassy  slope.  Sunny 
November  noontides  bring  enchantment,  and 
on  the  lawns  belated  butterflies  flit  around 
dandelions    lured  out  of   hiding.     But   be   sure 


that  finally  a  warning  will  sweep  from  ttie  nortti, 
the  last  fluffy  dandelion  will  be  blown,  and  the 
roysterer  Winter  will  have  his  turn  with  the  Old 
Town,  the  Hills,  and  the  River. 

The  End 


ly^ 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


RP'O 


Serieii  9482 


3   1205  00278  4062 


AA    000  879  115    4 


